


Twice Cursed

by mehramilo



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Witcher - Fandom
Genre: A love story if you squint, Bi-Curiosity, Brief Smut, For Temeria, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Sexual Tension, The Witcher 2: Assassins of Kings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mehramilo/pseuds/mehramilo
Summary: Because it’s one thing for a man to bow and quite another for him to bend. (Or: why Roche was so obsessed with taking revenge on the Kingslayer.)





	Twice Cursed

“I’ll send her away,” Mother said to him from the doorway.

Foltest studied her from his seat beside the fire. She wore her veil forward today, revealing only the slot where that oft-made threat spilled out.

“With a child in her?” he said and swirled the dregs in his goblet. “I hadn’t thought you so cruel.”

“‘Cruel?’” she spat. “ _You_ dare call me this? After the horrors you have visited upon me, upon—” Her mouth flattened into a far more sinister edge. “What have we done for you to hate your family so?”

But this was a feint and they both knew it. He’d never loathed them as he had his whoreson grandfather. They were too benign for such strong sentiments: his father, a meek man; his mother, purse-lipped, laced in quiet poise.

But Adda—

Well, it was _she_ who stirred his passions.

And so both curses began.

 

_i._

Foltest shuffles through the writs of execution, swiping a barbed line of ink along the bottom of each. Tedious, this endless stream of deserters, traitors, thieves, spies: men who had pressed their lips to Temeria’s seal then whispered her secrets to eager foes under the cover of night.

But this one—he pulls a page from the stack—is a strange crime, even to the likes of him. “‘Bestial acts,’” he reads aloud, then lowers the parchment. “What is this?”

The Reverend cranes to read over his shoulder. A sleeve of his crimson robes slumps loose, trails across Foltest’s meal, leeches wine from his cup. “Ah, yes, I remember this one: a soldier, brave lad, but black in his heart. No need to concern yourself, Sire: the Flame shall cleanse the ranks of this sickness before it spreads.”

They had said the same of him once: his monstrous crime; his offspring, no more than rot to be clipped from the tree at the fork. Curious, Foltest tosses the warrant into the brazier and says, “I wish to meet this one. Bring him to me before they light the brands.”

 

_ii._

When Foltest was young, a bitch whelped a litter in the stables. His tutors advised him to strangle the runt. Learning to dispatch such useless creatures was, of course, required of a king.

Instead, he coaxed the beast from its hiding place with bits of offal from the butcher’s table. Sat there for hours with the pup slouched across his lap, kneading the folds of loose skin behind its ears until it whimpered for him when he drew back again.

He learnt then the loyalty of a mongrel who craved his affections.

And so he smiles this day in the throne room of Vizima. Vernon Roche kneels before him, low enough to mist the tiles underneath as he exhales and presents the item he has retrieved: the banner of Mahakam, tattered and bloodied but unmistakable with its crossed hafts.

“Melitele has bestowed Her peace upon Temeria once again,” Foltest announces to the crowd. Then, pitched so only his man may hear: “Get up, damn it; you’ve just saved me from waging a whole ploughing war.”

Vernon stands, watching him with smoked-glass eyes; and when his king drags him close to embrace him, his face scalds red with pleasure.

 

_iii._

Vernon is the one to discover the bean in his slice of cake: the totem that names him king for a day during this midwinter feast in Foltest’s quarters. The serving girls cringe as they fetch Foltest’s crown from him and replace it with a fool’s hat; but he shakes his head to chatter the bells and declares, “You’ve just made me up into that pet of Henselt’s.” Merigold presses her fist to her mouth to hold in the wine as she laughs. The girls, too, hide smiles as Vernon swipes his chaperon off and jams Foltest’s crown on in its place. Then, of course, glowers at the lot of them as they titter.

They start with everluce but now drink Temerian rye, brewed right here in the underdark of the palace. Merigold and the rest of the courtiers retired hours ago; Vernon is the last to linger by the fire, the only one to assist Foltest in draining his stores. His blue tunic hangs open-laced at the neck; his knees list wide as he settles back in his chair. He’s finally drunk enough to relax and playact the ruler.

And so it is an equal Foltest imagines he addresses when he says: “Gods, it’s been a long time.”

Heat licks the front of his shins and along his chest as he studies the flames. Maria had turned him out of her bed long ago when swollen with Boussy, fearing any further assignations would spoil her womb. That perhaps the babe would slip out already white of hair and simple, some malformed doppler of his first-born. Utter nonsense, of course. He’d consulted the priests, burnt the necessary offerings, breathed deep the smoke. But she—but _all_ of them—thought him still blighted by incest and flinched from his touch like a lazar’s.

He continues: “Securing the succession: it’s all that matters, of course. But sometimes—” He scoffs. “King of Temeria. What ploughing use is _that_ when even the kitchen girls dare refuse you?”

Vernon does not respond.

Foltest peers alongside at him. Shatters the illusion, somewhat, to see him profile: the common slope of his nose, the shadow-smudged scars along his jaw. “Ah,” he says after pulling another long drink from his tankard, “but you wouldn’t have this problem, would you? What with your… _disposition_.”

Vernon flushes across his cheekbones as if freshly slapped. “Not since I joined your service,” he says into his cup. The peak of his throat slides up and back as he swallows deep, then he adds: “Not with backbiting whoresons in every corner of this place.”

“Clever man. If only the rest of my household learnt so quick.” Foltest tips his drink toward him. “At least I don’t squander what’s left of my youth alone.”

Vernon’s eyes track him as he heaves himself upright and stands by the hearth, curling his toes into the furs a moment to steady himself. He feels his pulse thump through his fingertips where he clutches the mantle: once, twice, counting off this stretched moment of being watched. And there, he thinks— _there_ is what he deserves: Vernon’s gaze flits nether and back with an unstudied sort of reverence.

“Your Majesty,” he finally says, gripping his cup between trembling hands. His knuckles blanch opaline in the firelight. “I could, if you want—”

“My name,” Foltest snaps, then sloshes out a laugh. “You are still king of the hour, after all. Not my subject.”

“Foltest,” he obeys, blood-red in the face, and stands, a shadow swollen up between Foltest and the star-crusted window behind. He slips the crown from his head and lays it atop Foltest’s—and lingers like this, hands cupped at either temple, holding the sound of his own heartbeat inside. A shiver arcs across where they touch when he whispers: “I live to serve you in any manner.”

He’s close enough for Foltest to smell the flesh-warm scent touched behind his jaw: cloves and lavender, reminiscent of the tender creases behind Adda’s thighs after she bathed. “For fuck’s sake,” he finally says, face sleet-stung with shame at the image of Roche lathering up as she had. “Vernon, I think it’s time we both got some rest.”

It’s not until later, after stripping for bed, that Foltest realizes he sweat through his clothes along his ribs, the backs of his knees, his wrists. _Too long by the fire_ , he tells himself before throwing back the linens.

 

_iv._

It is a curse, Foltest thinks, watching Vernon from across the cell. Maria and her foolish gambit, yes, but also this hex that left Temeria headless.

“What’ve you learned?” he finally says, shaking his head to dispel these thoughts.

In the corner opposite, Vernon snaps upright from where he bends over his work. “Sire.” He turns and fumbles a bow, folding the bloodied tongs in his right hand against his chest. Behind him, a man strung up in manacles moans and tongues a mouthful of pink drool out onto his chin. “I had not expected—”

“It is my dungeon; I’ll inspect it whenever I wish.” A waspish, unkingly response, but no matter: this prisoner will not live long enough to spread tales. Still, he breathes deeply before repeating the question: “What news?”

Vernon glances over his shoulder at the near-corpse. “Same story as before: that you forced yourself upon the baroness, that the ‘innocent maid’”—he bares his teeth—“had to flee to prevent further misuse.”

As if she hadn’t begged for the grace of his seed, once. But Foltest just grimaces and says, “I care not how she spins the romance. The _children_ , Vernon: my daughter, my little boy. Where has she taken them?”

He sighs and tosses the tongs onto the table beside them. “Says she recalled her husband’s guard to La Valette fortress a week ago, Sire. At a guess, they’re being held there. A most fortunate mistake for us. If you’ll follow me—” He scrapes past out the door. Foltest trails him down the lichened corridor and through an entrance on the left, to the dripping chamber Vernon has claimed for his quarters. A special forces banner draped over the lintel drifts lazily in the breeze dragged in behind them. Sprawled across his narrow pallet: yesterday’s shirt, still dark around the collar and under the arms.

From the heap of bound books and parchments shoved into his shelf, Vernon pulls a scroll and spreads it atop the desk in the center. “La Valette castle,” he declares, fisting the page flat at the corners, “and all her secrets laid bare.”

They are of a height, so the dagger belted at Roche’s waist nips Foltest’s as he presses in to examine the map. “Of all the ploughing wonders,” he drawls. “You’re nearly a better artist than you are a swordsman. I should hire you out to do portraits.”

Vernon scoffs. “My lieutenant, actually,” he says, then points to the tallest of the towers. “Here is the central solar, adjacent to”—a hiss as his finger slides across— “the family quarters. This is likely where the thieving whore took—”

“Careful, Roche.”

His ribs jut against Foltest’s as he forces out a breath to clear his throat. “Where we will recover the hostages. Your Majesty,” he adds and ducks his head so that the folds of his chaperon fall forward and hide his expression.

It amuses Foltest, getting Vernon’s back up like this. “You shouldn’t speak ill of Louisa,” he teases. “She made for _very_ pleasant company, you know. Quite the charming bedmate. In fact, I think it may have been she who ‘distracted’ me from sealing your execution.”

Vernon doesn’t laugh. Not that Foltest much expected it—he could be dour even on festival days—but his words have obviously needled open a store of bile inside him. A bit like Adda in his temper: the sudden black crush upon the shore bleeding back into the sea as he petted her afterwards.

“Come now,” he says, grasping Vernon at the nape and jostling him playfully. “You know it’s improper to pout before your king.”

“Forgive me, Sire,” he mutters, but the smile he offers is still impertinent.

Foltest stills a moment, studying Vernon’s flushed face, the way his body pours slack along his—and, really, he’s intrigued by this, isn’t he, since the night of the feast, because it’s one thing for a man to bow and quite another for him to bend.

“She served me for many years,” Foltest finally says, sweat-stuck to Vernon’s skin where he holds him. “Do you envy her for this?”

Vernon, simmering like bathwater against him, does not answer.

But—Foltest drops his hand and opens the space between them—this isn’t the time for such indulgences, anyway. He’s a war on and Vernon a prisoner to put to question. Instead, he laughs and declares: “In truth, Louisa did nothing. I knew you for a good man from the start.”

 

_v._

Dawn comes like stripping the skin from the flesh of a plum: bruise-black laid open gold. His men march along the banks of the Pontar, cerulean  and silver, splintered with pikes over their shoulders. And him at the fore, bedecked in the shields of Temeria and all her vassal states—and a vacant spot, purposefully left, where he will display the arms of the La Valettes once he is finished.

Only long enough to teach Maria a lesson, of course. He isn’t a tyrant, no matter what they say of him.

That night, he wends through the army camp, peering into firelit faces amongst the crowd. Stops to throw a hand of dice with the Fifth Regiment (lost) and to sample the evening’s meal from the pot. (“Needs more salt,” he declares, earning him a cheer from the crowd. And: “No need to fret about conserving our stores, cook; we’ll crush the dogs on the morrow!”)

It’s on the outer edge that he finds what he’s seeking: Vernon Roche and his unit practicing at targets. “At the ready,” Roche bellows, stalking behind the line of men to inspect as they heft crossbows to their shoulders. “Backs straight. I said _straight_ , godsdamn it. You look like a pack of fucking drowners. Finn, stick your tongue out while aiming again and I’ll cut the ploughing thing off myself. Now”—he cuts his hand forward—“ _loose_.”

Eight bolts fly. Two sail off into the shadows; the rest thud into the dummies’ hay-packed hearts.

“Must be luck that kept this pair alive,” Foltest says, stepping into the clearing. His special forces snap bows as he passes. He stops before Roche, who ducks his chin in deference.

“Apologies, Sire,” he says. “I’ll keep them here all night to practice.”

“That’s why we have a Witcher on our side, Vernon,” Foltest says, clapping a hand on his shoulder and smiling at the crowd behind. Roche’s men let slip laughter, a few bit-back grins. “I pay the bastard well enough; best to leave something for him to kill to earn it. Walk with me.” He steers Vernon toward the distant fires. “I have need of your counsel.”

They return to Foltest’s tent in the heart of the grounds. The walls sag and swell in the night breeze around them like something alive, coarsely breathing. Between them lies a diagram of the baroness’s defenses spangled with blue stones to mark Temerian forces.

“Tell me.” Foltest settles in the high-backed chair at the head of the table and nods towards the map. “How will we take La Valette castle tomorrow?”

At the foot opposite, Vernon stoops. “They’ve left themselves open on the west,” he says and cups a line of markers across to the castle walls. “Too reliant on tar and other minor inconveniences. Arrogant whoresons. We fire from a distance while another battalion infiltrates the tower from below—mine, if you’d grant me the favour.” He cuts his gaze up to Foltest and smirks.

Foltest studies him, stroking the oil-smooth arm of his chair. “Vernon Roche smiling,” he drawls. “Now there’s a rare sight. Though I’m never certain if it’s a good omen or an ill one.” He shoves his seat back to allow himself room to stretch his legs long. “Of course you will have the tower. Whom else would I trust?”

Pride heats Vernon ember-red from the neck up. He turns back to the map and pushes another row into formation. “The city: if we take that, they’re well and truly fucked. We’ve burnt every field in radius and slain any waggoner we caught coming to resupply. They’ll have eaten the last of their fresh stores perhaps”—he clips his bottom lip between his teeth as he thinks—“two weeks ago. So they submit to us or are forced to dine on their own ploughing boots.”

Vernon stands, glossed with sweat and breathing slightly ragged.

Foltest’s slouches back to appraise him. Then, he smiles. “You enjoy this far too much.”

Vernon huffs a laugh through his nose.

“And what of Pontaria,” Foltest continues after a pause, “when word of this reaches them? The other lesser states? All maintained by barons and nobles unfriendly to my name—am I to strike out at every one? Of course not. Temeria would tire of battle—yes, even you, Vernon—and I haven’t enough heirs to install in every vassal court.”

Roche grasps one of the stone markers and crushes it in his fist without meeting his gaze. “You’ve proved… _apt_ ,” he says. “Put the baroness aside; you’re sure to sire more.”

Foltest watches Vernon’s throat slip up and back as he swallows unspoken words. Along his broad chest, the stripes of orange candlelight warp as he sighs. The tent feels too close of a sudden: the prying dark at the entrance, the hissing canvas along the walls.

“Have you ever smithed before?” Foltest asks.

Vernon frowns. “Can’t say that I have, Sire.”

“I hadn’t expected it. A difficult art, even for those with the skill.” Foltest unknits his fingers and lays his hands on the armrests to either side before continuing: “Heat is the key. The fires must be well tended to forge a true blade. Neglected, and the weapon will still shape as normal—but later crack when tested.” A moment of silence, then: “ _I_ have run cold for far too long, Vernon. Any child made of me would be weak—would shatter when placed in some foreign land.” And he sticks the needle in that bleeds Roche’s cheeks red: “How do you think we should remedy this, Commander?”

Vernon licks his lips before replying: “Many noble families have daughters—”

“Seeking gold or—as we’ve seen—a child to hold over my head. No, what I need is someone loyal to Temeria, who expects neither land nor titles in return for this. Someone, who”—he rakes Roche from the hips up with his gaze—“perhaps simply craves the task itself.”

Vernon, tensed sharp along all his edges, just stares at him.

Foltest says quietly: “Did you not vow to serve me?”

He nods.

“And is this not something you desire, Vernon?”

His throat opens as he tips his head back to breathe deeply. Exhaled roughly: “I do.”

Foltest flicks a glance down and back. “Then don’t make me command.”

Vernon scatters pieces from the map as he rounds the table hard and crosses to him. A moment’s hesitation, his shadow splashed across Foltest’s spread thighs—then he kneels, slotted in between. Fingers trembling where they touch Foltest’s calves, he turns his mouth against the seam inside Foltest’s right knee. “Do I understand, Sire?” he asks, breath-damp through the fabric.

Half-hard already, Foltest shifts in his chair. Pets Roche once on his flushed face, another along the brow to scrape his chaperon off behind and teases, “Always were a clever one.”

“You flatter me.” Meant for humour, but way the words rub jagged against Foltest makes him burn. He watches unblinking as Vernon’s fingers creep to his to his laces, then hesitate on the knots. His eyes storm-polished as he looks up at Foltest and whispers: “Sire?”

He flicks a hand. “Go on.” Sharper than intended, but it’s just—

Foltest closes his eyes, digs his fingers into the lids. Tries to hold Adda in here, as always, as his laces are undone. A betrayal to not remember: the silvery spaces between her fingers, the stripe of nacre found on the back of her neck when he’d lift her hair aside. And her—Roche, unlike her, whimpers softly as he pulls him loose— _eyes_ —green, yes, wasn’t it— _think_ —

Think of—

 _This_ : Foltest unsticks his hand from his eyes and blinks, blinks through the heat-shimmer to focus. Vernon’s expression: the same stern one he wore in the gaol when examining a prisoner for weakness—but now his cheeks are splotchy and his hair scuffed askew and his grip humid where it’s wrapped around the base of his cock. Lips nettle-kissed, swollen already, searing as Vernon smears them around the head. It’s absurd, godsdamn it. Fucking absurd, if he truly thinks about it. He should laugh, be laughing right now, order him away, _something_ to curtail this before the priests duck into his tent squint-eyed to fetch him for the evening’s rites—

But, thudding hot through the face and light-headed, he guides Roche onto his cock with a trembling hand.

Roche doesn’t gag, just swallows and swallows around him with a mouth like molten honey. Foltest expels a cracked sort of sound as he bottoms out.

A moan rumbles through Roche—and he fists the hem of Foltest’s tunic, hauls him forward, mouth hot beyond bearing and bracketed by wet fingers as he shoves deep and draws back and again and still deeper, dripping thick around him as he pants through his nose, until Foltest, nearly sobbing already, gods help him, clutches the arms of his chair and rasps, “You may touch yourself,” and Roche pauses to dig at his own flies in a kind of panic.

Unfit for a king to be dispatched so quickly. Think of—think of anything, _anything_. And so: tomorrow, he thinks—eyes fixed on the tent’s peak overhead as Vernon buries his mouth again—he’ll claim La Valette castle and butcher the treacherous whoresons, maybe display their heads on the walls and flog their women.

 _And_ award Roche finer quarters, yes. And just—maybe just in the close heat of the palace: he’d present on his knees before the court like this to show his gratitude. Probably would enjoy it, too, this brothel boy, bred for the privilege of serving, hard mouth fucked wet and loose, yes, _yes_ , and—

And.

It all unravels.

 _“Fuck,_ ” Foltest gasps, and again—“gods, I’m— _fuck_ , I’m close”—as Vernon strokes his cock over his eager mouth and huffs “ _yeah_ ” in return around his outstretched tongue.

And Foltest comes, puffing through gritted teeth. A cramp, felt distantly, quakes along his thigh as he arches through.

Vernon shudders and moans between thick swallows as he finishes himself. Foltest sags against the chairback and scrubs his cheeks with the heel of his palm, as if woken from a feverish dream; and Vernon rocks forward to follow, mouthing gently at him, until Foltest winces and waves him away. He instead plucks his chaperon from the floor and daubs Foltest clean with it, his own gleaming fingers, then turns his head aside and rests it atop Foltest’s thigh.

“Foltest,” he murmurs and noses forward into Foltest’s empty hand where it rests beside him. Closes his lips against the palm, along the shivering lines to the wrist. “I’ve wanted—”

“Leave it,” Foltest commands. He’s never been one for this sort of declaration—and especially not from this man, who communicated well only with fired pokers and other instruments. But, touched by a phantom sorrow as Roche cringes, he adds: “Just stay like this a moment.”

And so they sit as shadows slip across the walls of his tent and campfire ash whispers along the top: Foltest drifting and Vernon crouched before him like a penitent. He thumbs the rim of Roche’s ear absently, follows the rough bend of his jaw underneath.

To think, such a gentle act is considered a transgression. What proceeded it: a thing most would deem shameful.

But then—he smiles— _that_ has always been his preference, hasn’t it?

After some time, Foltest realizes the sun has fallen. Darkness has settled like crypt dust around them while they half-slept. “You should return to your tent,” he declares and pushes through Roche’s leaden embrace to stand. “Get some rest. You have a castle to win for me tomorrow.”

“It’s yours,” Vernon says, following him as he crosses to the sideboard. “Just—allow me to stay, if only to stand guard. I won’t leave you this evening.”

“You think you’ve earned the right to this insubordination, I take it?” Foltest says as he pours himself a cup, though he cannot hide the quiver of amusement in his voice.

From somewhere behind him, Vernon says, “No. But in Vizima, when we return to the palace, we cannot—” He clears his throat but still runs hoarse as he says: “—meet like this again.”

Foltest huffs a laugh into his drink. As if he has ever cared what the emissaries or priests or other ploughing busybodies said of him. “I never imagined a man of your profession would suffer idle gossip,” he teases. But when he turns, he finds Roche standing before him, wrapped in crosswise ropes of firelight and shadow, looking sick of heart. “Even a king may keep his secrets,” he chides gently. Then, he says, solemn as a geas: “Vernon, this night will not be the last.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back from a long absence with a fic _absolutely no one_ asked for in a dead tag. I’m really very good at this whole fandom thing. /s (There used to be some great stories in this pairing, but the author deleted all their work, sadly. If you happen to be reading this and would like credit for giving me the idea, hit me up with your new name!)
> 
> Really, though, this was just an excuse to use a [Twelfth Night cake](http://blog.english-heritage.org.uk/twelfth-night-cake/) in a story because it sounded fun. And because Geralt taunting Roche with a couple Conspicuously Gay jokes in the dungeon immediately after Foltest’s death just won’t leave my head. This headcanon’s the equivalent of screaming about Pepe Silvia in the mailroom, but I can work with it.


End file.
